


Ain't I Mad for Running?

by potentialfordisaster



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Bodyguard Romance, Bodyguard!Chris, Brief Feminization Kink, Consensual Underage Sex, M/M, Richboy!Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5972785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentialfordisaster/pseuds/potentialfordisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is hired as the bodyguard to a wealthy family's heir. Their relationship is not very good, but they're getting there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't I Mad for Running?

**Author's Note:**

> A short bodyguard!au as I don't think I have seen any in the fandom. I have a soft spot for class differences, so forgive Tom his initial brattiness. Also, Tom has no determinate age in this, but he _is_ a teenager and Chris _is_ an adult. Their birth years are up to you. 
> 
> Please, enjoy!

It's not so much because he's been unemployed for too long. Chris has somehow always wanted to do this, regardless of his brothers' dubious looks. 'Dangerous', Luke says, and Liam completes with 'Boring, attending to a little brat's every whim, what are you gonna be, a babysitter?', and though Chris is an adult that handles judgment with a high chin and an open mind, it just doesn't settle as nicely as he had expected. 

 

Mr Hiddleston is a nice guy, and seems like a nice patron, shaking Chris' hand in a firm grip and promising he could get started on Monday, when his son, Tom, will leave school and go to the shopping mall. The boy has a peculiar face, with small features and sharp cheekbones, twinkling blue eyes and a pixie smile. At least that's what Chris can gather from the photograph Mr Hiddleston keeps of Tom on his desk. 

 

Chris had expected a posh boy, with spoiled tendencies and a gentlemanly character, mixed with the proud kindness that the photograph could only hint at. He should've learned not to trust appearances. 

 

\- 

 

"Who are you?" Is how Tom greets him, a frown pinching his young face as he looks Chris up and down after having spent what felt like a whole minute texting in his phone while Chris just stood there, feeling like a proper bastard in a suit, under the afternoon's scorching sun, in the middle of a high-bred school filled with students that go past him like he's air. 

 

"Mr Hiddleston," Chris clears his throat, crossing his arms for effect. Tom doesn't look impressed. "I'm Chris, your new bodyguard." 

 

Tom blinks at him, the frown unfurling until he shoves his phone in his pocket and says a petulant "Oh," before moving past Chris and into the awaiting car. 

 

Chris feels something revolving in his chest, the sour realization that this wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought. He climbs inside the car beside Tom, who's once more on his phone and barely glances at him, just asking Paul, the driver, to increase the A/C because he's melting. 

 

Chris maintains his gaze set firmly ahead in that way he'd seen bodyguards do in movies. He feels Tom's eyes on him. 

 

"I don't need a bodyguard." 

 

Chris turns to look at him, at the small pout on his lips, at the insistent, I-always-get-what-I-want look that is so typical of his bred of teenagers. 

 

"You should tell your father that." 

 

\- 

 

Walking down the mall with Tom is an absolutely ridiculous experience. The boy has a _platinum credit card_ all to himself, and goes from shop to shop with the ease of someone who's done nothing but shopping for stuff he'll barely use during his whole life. 'A babysitter', Liam's voice rings in Chris' head, and he refuses to acknowledge it as true as Tom hands him three bags to carry, eyes obscured by sunglasses that look way too good on him for Chris to admit. 

 

They stop for clothes, shoes, jewelry and even underwear, and all the while Chris just stands there, watching the crowd after someone in a suspicious attitude. He finds none, if the woman from the Starbucks' cashier isn't being too violent to her cash machine. 

 

Tom leads him towards a coffee that is built to look Parisian, and Chris supposes it does. They sit outside next to the parking lot. It's anticlimactic. And Tom has his nose shoved on his phone again. 

 

The waiter comes and Tom asks for a macchiato, looking up at Chris expectantly. He realizes he's supposed to order something, and asks for mineral water. 

 

"Are you always like this?" Tom asks, and Chris can't quite make out what he means because it's hard to decipher without looking into his eyes, still shadowed by the glasses. 

 

"This how?" 

 

"Gloomy." 

 

Chris needs a moment to take that in. So far, Tom has been nothing but gloomy himself. He reckons he isn't going to argue with a teenager, and chooses the less aggressive comeback he can think of. "Yes, I always am." 

 

Tom looks at him for some time and then huffs a small laugh, shaking his head lightly. He looks fine doing it, being more humane, that is. He takes the macchiato in hand when the waiter returns, sipping from it gracefully, his pale forearms smooth enough that Chris feels tempted to touch, in that way that rich people skin seems to be so attractively soft. Chris gulps down his water. 

 

\- 

 

Tom has a fuller agenda than Chris did in his age. But in his age Chris didn't have a platinum card in his name, neither a private driver nor a bodyguard for that matter, so he figures there's no actual ground for fair comparison. 

 

Tom attends events and gala aside from the daily school, a reunion for the outstanding youth that Chris doesn't know what is supposed to mean, and the occasional shopping mall visits filled with crazy spending and awkward silences when they stop for macchiato and mineral water. 

 

And the tennis club too, there was also that. 

 

Chris doesn't know what he finds so attractive about Tom in the tennis club. The boy just stands in his white attire, bouncing ball after ball to the other side of the net, where another club associate is waiting to do just the same. They are usually bald old men with nothing else to do at four o'clock, or perhaps well-off enough to pay someone to take care of their finances or run their business for them. 

 

It's the shorts that do it, Chris realizes, when Tom gasps and stretches to bounce the ball that almost scrapes the end of his curls. His shorts lift, and Chris has a sudden eyeful of pale thighs that he chooses to look away from where he is sat at the makeshift stands for a non-existent audience. 

 

Chris waits until the match is over to go and stand at the bottom of the court, waiting for Tom to finish his ritual of squishing water into his face before drinking two sips, checking his phone for anything new and grabbing his practice bag to head for the showers. Tom's rival walks up to him, a middle-aged man with a cloud of grey hair and a sweaty face. 

 

"Nice match, Tom!" The man says, patting Tom's shoulder. Tom grins minimally, the grin Chris has come to know means he's trying to be polite so you can go away because he doesn't want to talk. "Hey, send your father a hug, will you? I expect you and him for Rose's party this Saturday, right?" 

 

Tom nods quietly, and responds with a "Thanks, Jim, I'll talk to him." Tom grabs his practice bag and heads for the showers sans checking the phone, and Chris is suddenly reminded of a conversation they held a while ago in the winery Tom's family owned. 

 

"My father is paranoid," Tom had said during the process of analyzing Chris standing under the shadow of the brick house. 

 

"Why?" 

 

Tom had shaken his head, going to sit at the parapet overlooking the stretching miles of vines. The landscape was beautiful, and Chris found he quite liked it. "I don't need a bodyguard," he had said, again, but turned to look at Chris from over his shoulder. "There's no one after me." 

 

Watching the way Jim was watching Tom go now, Chris thinks he knows the reason why Tom's father is paranoid. 

 

\- 

 

It's Mrs Hiddleston's birthday, and Chris is handed a porcelain plate containing a slice of cake that looks too pretty to eat. He's at the kitchen with the other employees, and finds the gesture oddly touching, moving to the back veranda where he can watch the stillness of the garden in its classical beauty. 

 

The chocolate tastes heavenly, and Chris wonders if he'll ever be able to buy something like that for himself. He's surprised when Tom shows up, sparing him a quick look before leaning against the rail, facing Chris. It's unnerving to eat with him there, only the sound of the fork against the porcelain as Chris tries to cut himself some of the cake without destroying the whole thing. He hears Tom's amused huff, though, and suddenly his pale and spidery fingers are reaching to take Chris' hand away. 

 

Tom keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the task at hand, dipping the fork's side into the creamy dough until Chris needs to do nothing more than to stab it. "Thanks," Chris says, and sniffs the air after Tom's cologne once the boy moves to the rail again, face strangely flushed. 

 

Tom faces the garden now, the sharp ends of the rail digging into his stomach but he doesn't seem to mind. He's wearing a thin blue shirt and white sweatpants that make him look homey. Chris notices he's wearing slippers too, and finds it so cute that he feels like kissing the pale skin of Tom's heel just because it's poking from underneath the sweatpants. 

 

Nowadays, Chris aches to find something to say when they are like this, in silence. Tom seems unusually quiet, and though he knows better than to meddle, it's just never a good thing to simply stare at Tom without knowing what he's thinking. 

 

"I don't like birthday parties," Tom says, running a hand over his forehead until some of his curls bobs back. His hair looks lighter somehow, a color of blonde that reminds Chris of sparkling wine. 

 

"It's not just any birthday party," Chris replies, uncrossing his ankles where he's leaning against a pillar. "It's _your mother's_ birthday party," Tom doesn't say anything, and Chris adds that her cake is also quite delicious. That gets him a small smile in return, one of the genuine ones, though it's aimed at the garden rather than at Chris. 

 

"Why are you a bodyguard?" Tom asks, suddenly, turning to face Chris, a palm sustaining his cheek. 

 

Chris chews on the cake until he thinks about the answer. "I've always wanted to." 

 

Tom lets out a small breath through his nose, unbelieving. But he looks earnest when he continues, "To do this? Carrying my shopping bags and watching my boring tennis matches?" 

 

"The matches aren't boring, and I don't mind about the shopping bags," Chris kind of lies. Tom takes that in with a soft, calm face, the more peaceful Chris had ever seen him. "Why?" Chris asks, because he isn't about to let them drown in silence now that he's got a semblance of a topic. 

 

Tom shakes his head quietly, the way he does when he wants to dismiss it, but he answers nonetheless. "I don't know, I- I don't know what I want." 

 

"To be when you grow up?" 

 

Tom rolls his eyes, minimally, but he's smiling a little. "Yes," he says, and Chris opens his mouth, but Tom continues promptly, "I mean, I like some stuff," he sighs, and turns to lean with his back against the rail now. "But I'm not sure what to do with it." 

 

Chris shrugs. "What is it that you like?" 

 

"Uh-" Tom looks embarrassed for the first time, eyes on the veranda's white marble tiles. "Books, and theatre." 

 

Chris lifts his eyebrows, but he doesn't mean it as a bad kind of surprise. Tom doesn't see that, probably, because he huffs and makes to go away, but Chris holds a hand that doesn't even reach him but is meant to signalize that he should stay. "That's nice, that's good. You can be an actor, right?" 

 

Tom laughs, but for some reason it doesn't sound a very easy laugh. "It's not that simple," he looks at Chris with the eyes of a child who thinks he knows a lot about the world. _He has everything he wants,_ Chris thinks, suddenly, _and yet he isn't happy_. "Do you know what my father wants me to be?" Tom asks, his lips tugging in a pitiful smile. "A lawyer." 

 

Chris has eaten all his cake, but he doesn't want Tom to know it because he might perceive it as a reason to end their conversation. Chris tries so hard to think about something to say while not even knowing why he's even bothering. Tom is a spoiled brat, has everything in his hands, he should know disappointment for once to know how bitter it is to the rest of society who is only working out of necessity. "But don't you like books?" He regrets it the moment the words fall from his mouth, wants to shoot his own foot with the gun Mr Hiddleston had handed him and that he keeps on the back of his trousers. 

 

But Tom laughs, crisply, his teeth shining and Chris thinks him beautiful all of a sudden. "Fuck off," he says to Chris, but it doesn't sound as cutting as it could have if Tom were to say it three months ago when Chris was hired as his new bodyguard. 

 

\- 

 

Them talking doesn't change much as far as their relationship goes. Tom continues to ignore him in favor of thumbing down his cell phone's screen, continues to drink his macchiato in silence and continues to bounce ball after ball to the other side of the net. Chris doesn't see Jim at the club again. 

 

Chris feels it, though, the _thing_. It's the sensation he gets when he knows he's about to start liking someone, and although he knows peace is better than war, he doesn't want to let go of the bone that he's _supposed_ to hate Tom just because he's practically he's employer and didn't employees always hate their bosses? It doesn't make much sense from that perspective. Chris carries Tom's shopping bags, watches him drink his macchiato and watches him doubt himself in the few moments Tom stares out the window with a strangely vacant gaze, but it's difficult to visualize Tom commanding his life, signing his paycheck or terrorizing his weekends with loads of work. It doesn't feel like a true job. It feels like he's babysitting, and Chris ponders whether that means he should quit or stay. 

 

Tom makes the decision for him when he involuntarily reaches for Chris' wrist when they are descending from the car. He steps funny or trips, Chris isn't sure, but Tom's immediate reaction is to find support in Chris. It's retarded, really, anyone who's about to fall tries to hold themselves onto something. Chris just happened to be the big and muscly, bodyguard's something to Tom. 

 

"Careful," Chris says, steadying Tom with a firm grip on his arms. Tom makes a little sound, breathy, and then he's righting himself. 

 

"I know," he barks, and Chris gives a step back when Tom sighs, lips thinning like they do when Tom is mad about something but is trying to control himself. "Where is my practice bag?" He asks just so Chris has to climb in the car to get it for him. 

 

\- 

 

"Chris, this is Lacy," Tom introduces, holding up the leash attached to the chihuahua's collar. Chris doesn't know what is more surprising: _Lacy_ or Tom having addressed him by his first name. 

 

"Isn't she adorable?" Tom asks, and bends to take Lacy in his arms. The dog makes small sounds, but doesn't look at all bothered to be there. "I bought her yesterday." Tom supplies, and climbs down the front steps to his house. 

 

Yesterday was Sunday, and Chris had left earlier because Mr Hiddleston approached him to tell Tom was feeling a bit under the weather. It made sense since Chris had waited and waited for Tom to show up but the boy remained in his bedroom. It makes him uneasy to think that after leaving Tom had gotten up and gone to buy himself a _dog_ of all things. 

 

"I was feeling lonely," Tom tells him once they're in the car. He looks happier than usual, caressing Lacy's head, the dog squinting at Chris as though it wants to bite him. He has Lacy on his lap, and Chris dearly hopes she won't pee there though the sight would be funny. It hits him for the first time that _he_ would probably be made to take care of the dog, and Chris cringes at the mental image that is he carrying Lacy on her leash as he follows Tom in the shopping mall. He's about to say he's allergic to dogs to defend himself of yet another pathetic task, but when the car parks and Tom has to hop off, he holds Lacy up to his face, turning to Chris with a smile. "Will you hold her for me?" 

 

"Sure." 

 

\- 

 

Liam laughs so hard that Chris feels the urge to punch him in the face. His brother keeps hitting the table with his hand, head thrown back as though in agony. 

 

"S'not funny," Chris mumbles, twirling the spaghetti around his fork. Luke and his mother avoid making any comments, though their smiles are telling enough. His father has long ago retired to the couch, where his snores start to come from. 

 

"Oh, oh, god," Liam gasps after breath, taking a look at Chris' face before laughing again. Luke rolls his eyes. 

 

\- 

 

It's a windy Friday when Chris goes to pick Tom up at school and the boy shows up with black circles under his eyes, mouth set in an unpleasant line. He looks like he hadn't slept last night, and the accompanying mood he seems to be in only further solidifies Chris' suspicion. Tom closes the door so hard that Paul, who has the sociability of a dead fly, actually looks back at him from over his shoulder. 

 

"Drive," Tom says, in the firm voice that means he'll probably tell his father to fire you if you don't do what he says right now. Paul does so with no comment. 

 

Chris is on edge next to him, pretending not to sense the dark energy Tom is exuding. There's a sniffle, and Chris spares him a glance. Tom isn't crying, but he's looking ahead with a set jawline, which means he's probably holding something back. Two minutes later, he starts crying. 

 

If Chris hadn't seen the tear, he wouldn't have noticed, because Tom doesn't sob, his nose doesn't run and his eyes don't swell. Even while showing such a human emotion, Tom still fights to remain as serious as a statue. 

 

It's even more uncomfortable, because Chris can't quite pretend he's not seeing while maintaining a straight face. He remembers the handkerchief he keeps in his breastpocket, and hands it to Tom in solidarity. 

 

Tom turns to him, takes a look at his hand and breathes a controversed "Thank you." He dries the path of his tears on his cheeks, sniffles once, and surprisingly turns on the seat so he's facing Chris' profile. "I hate my family," he says, and Chris feels as though a stone had settled in his chest. 

 

Chris had watched enough tv shows to know rich families were full of emotional problems. Although Mr and Mrs Hiddleston seemed like the kind of parents that actually cared for Tom, Chris could never be sure. He didn't meddle on their personal lives. So when Tom says something like that, it's hard to think about what he should say in response. So he doesn't say anything. 

 

"They are insufferable. My grandfather came all the way from Scotland just to join my father and make me change my mind about law school," Tom says, his mouth tight like it pains him to speak, but there's a calm in his face that denotes he's somehow happy for being able to talk about it. Even if he was doing so with Chris, who wasn't actively participating on the conversation as he just sat and listened, and who was also his bodyguard. "My mother doesn't want to take sides and I hate her for it. But she always bends to my father's family's wishes because grandpa never wanted father to marry her and she feels like she shouldn't have a opinion that goes against his." Tom takes in a breath, opens his mouth like he wants to continue. But his eyes flit over Chris' face, like he has just realized the intimate details he had said, and to whom. Tom licks his lips after that, gulping softly as he angles his face away. "We're going to pick Lacy up, and then we're spending the weekend at the winery house," Tom says to the window. 

 

Chris' eyebrows lift in his surprise at the change of plans. He had expected to spend his weekend at home, or maybe with his mother, but he liked the winery house. And Tom's company wasn't that detestable either. 

 

\- 

 

Chris forgoes the jacket and tie when at the winery. The sun is not as scalding as it is in the city, the air is fresh and smells of ripe fruits and wet soil. They are at the balcony overlooking the vines again, and Tom is sat under the parasol, sipping from a fruity drink overflowing with ice cubes, sunglasses on his face and Lacy on his lap, his pale feet propped up on the glass table. 

 

Chris lingers at the parapet with his hands in his pockets, locks of hair swinging with the wind. He feels inside a scene of an Italian mafia movie, like the big husband in his great estate, in his loafers and button-down, Tom his little pampered wife with his petite red mouth wrapped around the straw of his latest drink, foot bobbing above the table, waiting for something to happen, for Chris to approach him and bend to kiss- 

 

"Do you like wine?" Tom asks, suddenly, and Chris begins to wonder if lately their silences have begun bothering Tom as much as they do Chris. 

 

Shrugging, Chris responds with a low "A bit." He sees Tom's lips quirking, raising his hand to call for May, the servant, while Lacy jumps from his lap to go and try to climb up Chris' leg. 

 

May nods when Tom is done murmuring something to her, and a while later returns with a silver tray in hand, two tall glasses of wine and a dark bottle. She serves them both, and Tom tilts his glass for Chris to approach and take the seat across from him at the table. "It's our latest harvest," Tom says, and flings his sunglasses above the table. His eyes look bluer, his cheeks slightly reddened, and when he takes the stalk of his glass between thin fingers, he looks at Chris above the rim, gulping the dark purple liquid while Chris does the same at the other side of the table. 

 

Tom's gaze makes Chris' insides shift, and it's unfair that everything they do is on Tom's command. It's Tom who says they should try more of the wine, it's Tom who laughs and throws his head back when Chris says something funny. He's getting tipsy in the presence of a teenager, who isn't even legally allowed to drink. He doesn't feel repentant, though. 

 

Tom is caressing Lacy's head, the dog sniffling quietly at the collar of his shirt. He laughs, his eyes shutting, and when Chris _looks_ at the pale column of his neck, gaze running over the expanse of skin, Tom opens his eyes and he _sees_ it. Tom's smile fades slowly, and though Chris has quickly looked away, Tom is still staring at him, his eyes knowing. He looks the same from the photograph atop his father's desk. 

 

\- 

 

Chris really likes the winery house. It's antique but not oversized, with its red bricks and ample rooms. He's given a servant room with a single bed and a wooden bureau drawer, a bathroom attached to it, with a foggy mirror, a toilet and a yellowed bath cramped into the smallest space possible to allow only the necessary maneuvering. 

 

The sun is setting outside, and under the orange streaks of light, he takes a bath before putting on clean trousers and a shirt that is too tight around his chest, courtesy of Rudy, the carpenter, who speaks in a fast Irish accent but seemingly understood Chris' request of a clean change of clothes. The staff is nice but silent, professional. They don't ask why Tom is spending the weekend here out of the blue - which perhaps means he does that a lot - and neither why he's only brought his bodyguard for company when it's clear Tom is under no danger. Chris doesn't know why Tom has brought him either. But he doesn't question it. 

 

He's climbing the stairs to Tom's room, ready to knock on his door and ask if he's okay, if there's anything he needs - _babysitter_ -, but he finds it open, the wooden doorframe showing Tom on his knees inside his significantly more spacious room, speaking quietly to Lacy, the dog trying to bite a biscuit from Tom's hand. 

 

"Sit," Tom commands, but Lacy whines, eyes locked on the out-of-range biscuit. Chris leans against the door and watches with a slow forming smile. "Lacy, sit!" Tom says again, and Lacy shifts on her paws. Tom sighs, but he's smiling. "Roll," he tries again and Lacy barks at him. Tom groans, and gives up, letting her have the biscuit. 

 

Lacy eats it quickly and sniffs Tom's hand after more treats. Tom laughs softly. "You have to obey mommy, sweetie." 

 

"Mommy?" Chris can't help asking, and Tom turns sharply to him, mouth hanging open before he recuperates himself and supports a hand on his knee to get up. His cheeks flame, and he gives Chris his back with a low "I didn't see you there." 

 

Chris shrugs, mostly because he feels embarrassed for having watched Tom. Tom doesn't see it anyhow with his back turned. He's shirtless, Chris notices, wearing only low-hanging sweatpants that leaves his hip bones visible. Chris doesn't know how to feel about it, but his crotch warms and he shifts on his feet. 

 

Tom is arranging something on his dressing table. He has one of those dressing tables Chris thought only existed in fairy tales, in princess movies, where they sat at cushioned stools and stared lovelornely at their reflections while brushing their hairs. Without meaning to, Chris' gaze flies to Tom's room. 

 

There's a double, canopy bed far by the wall, covered in a red duvet with a lace hem. It's strangely endearing. A beige armchair sits in front of the doors that open to the balcony, long curtains flowing with the evening breeze. A door is shut at the corner, the bathroom, apparently. 

 

Chris lifts his eyes, and they find Tom's on the mirror. Tom watches him back warily, and Chris can see the muscles on his back flexing. He feels sheepish, standing there like he's expecting something out of Tom. Lacy runs to him, panting and trying to climb up his leg. He bends to caress her, and when he finds something to say, raises his head. 

 

Tom is still in the same position, but he tilts his head to the side, and when he looks back at Chris it's with the same look from when they were drinking wine under the parasol. The knowing look. Chris remains with his mouth hanging open, not remembering what he was about to say before Tom's eyes flashed his way. But Tom gives the smallest smirk possible, face almost shadowed by his own body through the reflection. He draws his shoulders in, a collarbone protruding from under his skin, and his stare becomes so heated that Chris stands up in a bout. 

 

"Is dinner ready?" Tom asks, fast, before Chris can go away like he means to. 

 

"I don't know," Chris murmurs, and licks his lips. "But I can check with the cook." 

 

Tom is looking down at the table again, but a sharp sound echoes when he drops something and he's turning on his heels, approaching Chris on light feet. His pale and long fingers find the tips of Chris' collar, and he draws him in as though Chris is a toy with no inner command. 

 

Tom is pretty from up close, his breath warm on Chris' jaw. He looks up at Chris with the same eyes, and he's doing it on purpose, because he knows Chris can't control himself correctly when next to Tom's smell. His mouth hangs open like those from models in lipstick advertisement, only enough to hint at his tongue when he angles his chin higher, his tailbone resting on the doorframe. "Do that." 

 

\- 

 

Chris doesn't know when they are going to fuck, but it's going to be soon. He doesn't have free will so the decision rests solely on Tom, as is always the way. He thought they would do it there, that Tom would pull him into his room, or that he would smash Tom against the doorframe until his legs were wrapped around Chris' waist. But it doesn't happen. 

 

He goes to ask the cook if dinner is ready on shaky legs. Maude says that yes, and that young Mr Hiddleston can go down the stairs to the dining room if he so wishes. Chris says he wishes so, and Maude nods. 

 

Tom goes down the stairs slowly, step after step. He's wearing a turquoise shirt that clings to his chest, and the tiniest pair of shorts Chris had ever seen. _The bastard_ , he thinks, matching Tom's look with heated cheeks and a flaming crotch. Tom stops at the bottom of the stairs, motions for Chris to take his hand, and Chris does so, thinking of his paycheck instead of the nice way Tom's fingers curl around his or the proximity of his body. 

 

Chris lets Tom into the dining room and then heads for the kitchen, where he's supposed to dine with the other servants. He sits in the wooden stool, his long legs feeling too big to fit under the table. There's only Maude and Rudy in there with him, May had gone earlier to bed. 

 

Chris had only just stabbed at a pea when Tom appeared in the threshold. As if on cue, Maude and Rudy finish their dinners, Rudy retiring to his room and Maude saying she was going to do just the same. It's only Tom and Chris in the kitchen, and Tom looks sad when he stops beside Chris, the soft skin of his thighs brushing Chris' knuckles where he grips the edge of the table with all his might. 

 

"Come," Tom says, dragging his pale fingers over Chris'. It's not even a grip, he doesn't try to take Chris' hand in his, he just brushes his skin over Chris', he knows the power it has over him. And Chris obeys. 

 

Tom leads him with only a finger wrapped around Chris' thumb, looking back at him from over his shoulder, the same look. Teasing, hot, but also vulnerable. 

 

The dining room is smaller than Chris had imagined, framed by red curtains on both sides, a long table extending itself through its length. Only the high seat at the bottom is set, which is obvious since there's only Tom of importance in the house. He makes Chris sit on it though, and Chris does, staring down at the plate of food in front of him, the repetitive silverware: three forks, three knives... He frowns, not so much because he doesn't understand what's going on but because Tom angles a leg to hop onto his lap, sitting there with his bum on Chris' semi erection. 

 

"Do you want me to feed you?" Chris asks, pathetically, and Tom laughs. 

 

"We'll share," he says, resting his legs on the armrest as he stabs some salad and feeds it to Chris. 

 

\- 

 

Chris _said_ it was going to be soon. 

 

They fuck that night after dinner, on Tom's bedroom. Tom has his legs spread, and he pants and whines under Chris' chest, body heaving with every thrust. Chris holds onto the headboard, and Lacy barks at them from the floor. 

 

"Shut up, stupid dog!" Tom shouts, and claws at Chris' back. Lacy pauses, watches them fuck before resuming all over again. It's the wet sounds that are scaring her, Chris reasons, and grits his teeth when Tom licks at his chin, redoubling his thrusts. 

 

Tom isn't nice about it as much as he isn't nice about ordering Paul to drive or Chris to carry his stuff. He moans Chris' name though, clenches around him and seems riveted when Chris wraps a hand around his length. It doesn't cross Chris' mind that he's having sex with a teenager. Tom behaves so much like an adult, with his seriousness and his wine and his apathy and his money. 

 

Whatever he owns that makes him so relentless in life seems to fade in bed, though. Chris has a feeling Tom would let him do anything to his body. He gives himself passionately, doesn't hesitate or ask Chris to stop so he can get used to it. But his eyes, his blue eyes are always focused on Chris, his mouth hanging like he wants Chris to look at him and find him beautiful. And Chris does. 

 

\- 

 

Chris sleeps with him, on his bed. They wake up to May's screech when she comes in the morning to pull the drapes and ask Tom if he'd like his breakfast delivered in bed. The maid stands there, her chest jumping, eyes the size of saucers. Chris feels an urge to hide his face, to get his stuff and run, run because he's been caught, because both he and Tom are naked and from the smell in the room, their activities were clear and he was a pedophile. He wondered if Liam would laugh now. 

 

"Why didn't you fucking knock?" It's what Tom yells back at May, whose mouth is opening and closing without a word escaping. She tries to apologize and Tom waves her away, saying a "Bring me and Chris breakfast if you would." 

 

She goes and closes the door. 

 

"Tom," Chris isn't sure what to say. 

 

Tom has a tousled hair and down-turned lips. Chris doesn't know if he looks like this everyday when waking up. "Don't worry," Tom mumbles, lying back down on the mattress. 

 

"Will she-" 

 

"No, she won't," Tom looks at him. He doesn't look near as scared as Chris is. He scratches a cheek, and makes Chris lie down beside him, resting his cheek on Chris' nipple. "My grandmother died in this house," he begins by saying, and Chris feels somehow worse. "My father doesn't like coming here, and my mother avoids everything my father avoids." He looks up at Chris, and Chris doesn't expect a smile but that's what he gets. "That's why I like coming here. We're away from them. The staff responds to _me_." 

 

\- 

 

Tom is more affectionate than Chris would've believed. Something in him changes too. He looks happier. 

 

They take a walk around the vines after breakfast, Tom taking Lacy on her leash. He collects grapes from the vines, bites into them until the juices break free, and convinces Chris to do the same. 

 

They end up with purple stained lips, and when they go back to the house, laughing, Tom wraps an arm around his waist and angles his head up to kiss him. Tom tastes like grapes, and Chris delves his tongue in, allowing himself to forget this was actually the boy he was supposed to be protecting. Lacy runs around them, her leash winding around their legs. 

 

Under the parasol, Tom sits on Chris' lap. He takes his sunglasses off and runs a hand through Chris' hair. "Your hair is getting longer," he says to the skin behind Chris' ear. 

 

"It is, I need to get it cut." 

 

There's a lazy smile on Tom's lips. "Why? I want to see you with long hair." 

 

It looks unprofessional, but Chris doesn't tell Tom that. Instead, he takes his cell phone out of his pocket and shows Tom some old pictures of him with long hair. They end up browsing through Chris' gallery, photos of him in the family's barbeque, with some old friends. "Do you miss them?" Tom asks with a pensive face, eyes on Chris' mother's smile. 

 

"Not all the time," he answers, truthfully. "But when I go too long without seeing them, yes, I do." 

 

They both know all Chris does is work for Tom. They spend almost every day together, even on weekends when Tom is about to go out, Chris is supposed to be there to watch him out. "You can have a day-off whenever you want, you know that?" Tom murmurs after a while, after they've completely changed topics. "My father won't be mad." 

 

"I know," Chris says, and kisses Tom again. He likes doing it, kissing him. Actually, he likes Tom. 

 

\- 

 

The night is cold in the winery, and somehow they end up in Tom's room again. 

 

Tom is wearing a white silk robe that reaches his knees, but with how he's reclined against the headboard, the hem falls to his hips, and the long lines of his legs are exposed. He's reading a book on poetry, Chris thinks, with a look of deep concentration. From where he is sitting on the armchair in front of the balcony doors, Chris admires him. 

 

There's fire in the hearth, but the cold night wind shuffles the flames every once in a while. Tom looks up from his book, smiles and leans his head back. "What is it?" He asks, softly, completely aware of Chris' gaze on him. 

 

Chris shakes his head minimally. "You." 

 

Tom blushes, his teeth showing when he smiles. "Come here," he murmurs, and pats the mattress beside him. 

 

Chris settles with his head on Tom's lap, a palm going up and down Tom's flank. It's the most comfortable he's felt in weeks, lying down together with the boy whose father he works for, feeling the sweet smell of Tom's body lotion, the heat of his soft skin pressed so close to Chris' own. He doesn't know what he's doing, here in these old brick halls, playing house with a too young boy. But he likes Tom's touch in his hair, he enjoys the velvety whispers that drift through Tom's throat when he reads a particularly touching verse; and when he looks at the billowing drapes, at the quiet room and at Lacy sleeping next to the fire, he wishes it could be like this forever. 

 

\- 

 

Chris dozes off and wakes when Tom has turned off the lights and is sizzling up to him under the covers. "Hi," he whispers prettily in Chris' ear, and Chris lets his hands under the robe to cup his round buttocks. Tom does a small _hnn_ sound, and throws a leg above Chris' hip. 

 

For a moment it feels like they'll do nothing much, just talking quietly to one another, the moonlight now the only source of light in the room. "You have to see this place in the winter," Tom says conversationally, and it's good to see this side of him, the comfortable, normal side of him. Chris notices he only ever let it show when he was away from his family, from the city. Or on that odd day when he cut Chris' cake for him. "My feet freeze." 

 

Chris kisses him, slowly, thinking of how much he'd love to feel Tom's frozen feet running up his calves when they do the exact same thing in this exact same bed in the winter, snow pilling outside the winery house. 

 

Tom's hands are warm on his neck, and once Chris is finished kissing him, he wraps his arms around Chris' shoulders. "Do you like it here?" He asks, and reaches for the lube that he keeps hidden under the pillow. 

 

Chris breathes in Tom's scent, stronger on his neck. He'll always link this place to Tom. "I love it here." 

 

Chris coats a finger in lube, and Tom gasps in his ear when he searches blindly for his entrance and pushes in. "So do I." 

 

He lets Chris have him, sits on Chris' lap and doesn't look at all embarrassed with the way Chris looks at his body, unfolding before him, long and pale. Chris' chest heaves, and he fears his vision will go hazy, sweat dotting his forehead while Tom smirks and crams his hips over Chris' cock. 

 

The penetration seems painful, and Chris plays with the umid tips of Tom's curls while the boy impales himself on him, setting the pace, pushing down over and over until he's doing so with an open mouth that lets out small moans and sighs. 

 

Lacy stirs on the floor, growling for being disturbed. Tom laughs, and sinks back down, his own pink cock bobbing. "Shh, Lacy," Chris makes, amidst his own sounds, "Leave me and mommy alone." He doesn't know why he says it, but the sheer look on Tom's face, the way he flushes, the slight widening of his eyes before he leans to kiss Chris, the clench of his walls. Tom comes, untouched. 

 

He settles back on Chris' hips, his come cooling already. But he laughs in delight, cut off as he's still regaining his breath. Tom can still feel Chris, hard inside him, but he lifts a pale wrist to clean his forehead. He looks shy under Chris' eyes at first, and then slinks back down to kiss him, hips rolling to entice Chris, moaning hotly when Chris nips at his neck. 

 

Tom laughs when Chris turns him on his back and proceeds to thrust into him, eyelids tumbling in exhaustion and sensitivity and a thousand other feelings. When Chris' orgasm hits him, he looks down at Tom. 

 

Chris adores him, and Tom preens under his stare, the attention, the way Chris' face pinches in pleasure that comes from his guts if not from his heart. 

 

\- 

 

The ride back to the city is silent. Paul came to pick them up, and silently, they reversed to bodyguard and rich boy mode. 

 

Tom stares out the window, and Chris can't see his face but he can bet he looks sad. They discover it is raining in the city two minutes before the car parks in front of Tom's house. Paul throws an umbrella at Chris from the front seat, and Chris dutifully uses it to scort Tom out of the car safely, Lacy gathered in the boy's arms. 

 

The door opens and the servants bring Tom's stuff to the house, and Tom just stands there next to it, staring over his shoulder back at Chris, who stares back at him from the car. He smiles, and Tom smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, point me out any mistakes or typos, I've been filtering them but you never know.


End file.
